


Another Roadside Attraction - Part Three

by withoutaplease



Series: Another Roadside Attraction [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 08:59:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5737594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutaplease/pseuds/withoutaplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reader finds herself in a desperate situation with only one hope for help – an old phone number, scrawled on an old note, from an old friend she hasn’t seen in almost ten years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Roadside Attraction - Part Three

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!

               You’d known there was something off about them from the moment you saw them striding into your store.  You run a pretty respectable antique shop as a front for your real, more lucrative occupation, and of all the types of people who stroll in off the street to browse an antique shop, this trio of young hotshot Wall Street types wasn’t one of them.  It was just about closing time, and the sun outside was just disappearing under the horizon. You were working alone, as usual, and they marched right up to you at the register, without so much as glancing aside to admire a gilded tea service or an inlaid cherry armoire. Despite their easy smiles and charming good looks, there was something about their manner that made your skin crawl.  Their ringleader, a young Will Smith-type with a licentious grin snaked on his face, rested his palms on the counter and leaned in close before he spoke to you.

               “I understand you’re the woman to speak to if I need a particular item procured?” he said, conversationally.  You tried to look casual as you scanned the store for any other customers.  There were none to be found.

               “As it happens,” he says, “I’m in somewhat desperate need of an,” he leaned in closer, almost whispering, “Enkidu Ring, and I was hoping you could help.” 

               You fought to keep your expression neutral. “An Enkidu Ring?” you repeated, swallowing thickly.  The Enkidu Rings were actually bracelets, six in total, plain hammered pewter to the untrained eye, but allegedly forged from one of the molten blades of Gilgamesh.  According to the lore, they could either grant the wearer eternal life, or banish them to eternal damnation, more or less depending on how much of a douchebag they are.  As luck would have it, you had recently acquired one, but it would be a dangerous thing even in the hands of the good guys, and your every instinct was telling you this was not one of the good guys.  You forced a smile.  “You know, boys, give me a week, two tops, and I can probably scare one up for you.  Would you like to place a special order?”

               “I was so hoping you’d have it available now,” he said, blinking rapidly, and it was only for an instant, but you saw his eyes flash black and back again.

               “On second thought, maybe I do have one in stock after all,” you said, palming your cell phone and backing away toward the storeroom.  “Let me just have a quick look in the back for you.”

               “You do that,” Will Smith snarled. 

               The moment you were out of sight in your back room, you sprinted the few feet into your office and locked the door behind you.  You dug your handgun out of your desk drawer from under a pile of paper, but when you checked, you found it unloaded.  You looked around the room frantically, but there was nothing else handy to use as a weapon, unless demons were secretly vulnerable to stacks of old invoices and certificates of authenticity.  Desperate, you did the only other thing you could think to do - you pulled your wallet out of your pocket, and dug out the faded, crumpled fold of paper you kept in it.  It was a note someone wrote you a long time ago, with a number you’d added in bold red pen when you’d found it in the back of a drawer and decided to hang onto it, just in case.

               _You have my number. If you’re ever in any kind of trouble, please call. Even if you hate me._

               Your fingers were shaking as you pressed the numbers into the touch screen, and as you waited, you said a silent prayer that it was still connected after all this time.   After three rings, the voice mail picked up, and for just the briefest second, when that old, familiar voice said, “You’ve reached Sam, leave a message,” you were so struck by it that you forgot your fear, forgot the Wall Street trio, forgot what it was you wanted to say.

               Then you heard someone kicking the door, and Will Smith shouted, “I’m afraid I’m running out of patience, doll face,” and you remembered.

               “Sam,” you breathed hurriedly into the phone. “This is (Y/N).  I’m at the antique shop at 2342 Charleston Boulevard in Las Vegas.  I think I’m in trouble.  You said to call.” Just then, Will Smith and his buddies broke through the flimsy office door and rushed into the office with you, along with some new friends whose grotesque grins told you they could only be vampires. 

               You dropped your phone and raised your hands in surrender, and Will Smith’s eyes blinked black again as he grinned and said to his vampire henchmen, “Do what you want with her, boys.  I’ll find the Ring myself.”

* * * * *

               As it turns out, “do what you want with her” meant, “drag her to your hideout and keep her alive while you feed on her.” 

               You’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness for who-knows-how long, awakening each time to rediscover your predicament.  You’re strapped down to a wooden armchair by your wrists and ankles, and there’s a patch of bright, sparking pain in the side of your neck where you’ve already been bitten at least twice, probably more.   Although it feels like it’s been ages, you figure you can’t have been here much longer than a day, or you’d be dead already.  For the moment, you’re alone in an unfinished concrete basement, nothing to look at but bloodstains on the walls, illuminated by harsh bare bulbs dangling haphazardly from the ceiling.  Not that you could look anyway; you can barely focus your eyes.

               You’re about to black out again when you hear glass shattering, followed by shouting and crashing, coming from the floor above you.   A fight.  The commotion lasts maybe five minutes and then everything goes quiet, and you think about yelling for help, but you don’t know who the vampires’ opponents were, or which ones were victorious, and besides, your throat is raw with thirst and screaming.   The question becomes academic when you hear the patter of footsteps as they start coming down the stairs toward you.   It takes you a moment to recognize the first face you see when he comes running up to you and gently lifts your chin, examining you for signs of life.

               “Hey there, sweetheart,” he says softly, a little out of breath.  “You’re gonna be okay.  I got you. My name is –“

               “Dean,” you finish weakly, remembering.  He smiles and frowns together, surprised. 

               “You’ve heard of me?” he says, as he checks out the wound on your neck.

               “I don’t want to sound ungrateful,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, “but is –“

               Dean shushes you.  “You’re hurt, don’t try to talk.  Just sit tight for a minute, okay? We’re gonna get you out of here.”  You nod, and then wince at the fresh wave of pain the motion causes. 

               “(Y/N)!” you hear from behind Dean, the voice at once familiar, and deeper than you remember.  Then he steps into view, and, blurred vision or not, he looks strikingly different, from the long hair falling messily in his face, to the strong and angled set of his stubble-dusted jaw.  Then he kneels in front of you, and holds your face in both hands, and breaks out into a brilliant smile that you could never, no matter how many years have intervened, begin to forget.  You beam back, your injuries momentarily forgotten.

               “Dean,” Sam says, still grinning, barely taking his eyes off you as the two of them get to work on unbuckling the belts that are holding you in place, “You remember (Y/N)?”

               Dean stops to look at you again, and this time recognition dawns on his face.  He looks to Sam, who doesn’t take his eyes off you as his fingers work.  “So when you said you got a tip about a job in Vegas?”

               “It was her,” Sam confirms, gently lifting you up out of the chair and cradling you in his arms.  “Hey,” he says, softly, almost in your ear, “this is important - I need to know if they made you swallow any blood,” and when you shake your head _no_ , he sighs in relief.  “All right, let’s go patch you up.”

               “You could’ve mentioned it was your old girlfriend,” Dean mutters as Sam starts to carry you up the stairs.  You let your head fall against his shoulder, and you feel him shrug in response to his brother.  The last thing you think, before you really do pass out, is that it smells like he still uses the same old brand of shampoo.

* * * * *

               This time, when you open your eyes, you’ve never been happier to see the inside of your office at the back of the antique shop.  You’re laid out on the beige leather sofa you sleep on some nights when you’re here too late working on special acquisitions, and Sam is turned away from you, sitting at your desk, going through a handful of papers that your recent guests left scattered across your desk.  You raise yourself up on one elbow, the pain blossoming fresh in your neck again when you move, and you notice you’ve been cleaned up and bandaged.  Sam turns in the computer chair to look at you.

               “Thank you for coming when I called,” you say, in a voice that comes out all squeaks and whispers.  “I didn’t know what else to do.”

               He smiles, and casts his eyes down for a moment. “We got lucky,” he says, scooting closer to you in the rolling chair. “We were less than a day out of Vegas when I got your message.  When we found this place ransacked and covered in traces of sulphur, we went looking for a trail, and sure enough, the vampires were sloppy.  Do you know what they were after?”

               You know exactly what they were after, and you’re pretty sure they got it, which is bad news, but you’re having trouble concentrating on such trivialities because there’s Sam Winchester in the flesh, before your eyes, and that’s a thing you haven’t allowed yourself to so much as dream about in a significant number of years.  “(Y/N)?” Sam asks, raising his eyebrows, one corner of his mouth curled up.

               “Sorry,” you say, “It’s just . . . it’s really good to see you, Sam.”

               He bites back a wide, dimple-flashing grin.  “It’s good to see you, too.  I saw you in that basement, and I saw that you were okay, and it just . . .”

               “Yeah,” you agree, nodding.  “It all just came back.”

               “Yeah,” he repeats, almost at a whisper. He stares at you for a moment, lower lip caught in his teeth, like he’s calculating.  He’s just beginning to lean in a little closer when Dean appears in the doorway. 

               “(Y/N), good, you’re awake.  How’re you feeling?” he says, stepping into the office and sitting on the armrest at your feet. 

               Sam leans back in the chair again, and his eyes linger on yours another second before he looks away.  You take a deep breath, and turn to Dean.  “I think I’m going to live,” you say, voice hoarse but stronger.  “Thanks to you,” you add.

               He waves your thanks away with a gesture of his hand. “We need to know what those demons were here for, and we need to know if they got it,” he says. 

               “They came for an Enkidu Ring,” you report.  “Unfortunately, I had one of them here, so I have to assume they got it, unless you found it in the mess out there.”

               “No such luck,” Dean says, and shares a look with Sam.  “We’ve gotta get it back.  Whatever they wanted it for, it can’t be good,” Dean says.  “The longer we wait, the colder the trail.”

               Sam nods. “Go ahead,” he tells Dean.  “I’ll be out in two minutes.”

               Dean looks from you to Sam and back again.  “I’m glad you’re all right, (Y/N),” he says, and you smile at him before he walks out of your office and out the front door of the shop.  Sam turns to you again.

               “Do they know where you live? The demons that were in here?” he asks.

               “I don’t think so,” you answer.

               “Okay,” he says.  “Then after I go, I want you to leave out the side door, and go straight home, and stay there while me and Dean take care of this.  You might want to think about closing up shop for a while, too.  Or at least putting up some wards or something.”

               “Not a problem,” you say, sitting upright on the couch, “I do most of my trading online anyway.”

                “Listen,” he says, raking a hand through the front of his hair, “this is probably going to be a milk run, and I think Dean wants to stick around for a few days to catch some prime rib buffets and a girlie show, so . . . if you’re feeling up to it, we could catch up? Have dinner? If you’re interested.”

               “I might be,” you say, and you’re beaming, and then he’s beaming too, and then he’s leaning in to you again, and you’re licking your lips, and closing your eyes, and taking a deep breath, and he’s exactly half an instant away from pressing his lips onto yours when his brother yells for him from out on the street, and you both jump.

               “A little help here, Sammy?” Dean shouts at the front door. 

               “Hold that thought,” Sam says with a sigh and an impish smile that could’ve come straight from behind the counter of that old college coffee shop.  He quickly gets up out of the desk chair and looks you over again. “You’re sure you’re okay?” he asks quickly, reaching out his hand to help you up.

               “I’ll be fine,” you reply, letting him pull you to your feet, regretting how quickly he drops your hand again.

               “Good.  Go home. Be careful.  I’ll call you about dinner,” he says, already halfway out of the room.  He stops in the doorway to look back at you one more time, repeats, “It’s good to see you,” and then he’s hurrying out into the night.  You take a quick look around the chaos of your office, and then you slip out the side door and into the neon lights and crowded sidewalks of the street. Surrounded by this much light and this many people, and with Sam and Dean covering your tracks, you feel reasonably safe as you make your way home.  You even allow yourself a little bit of license to daydream, or, more accurately, to reminisce.

* * * * *

               You feel your cheeks darken when you glance up over the top of your menu to see that Sam is openly staring at you, his own menu sitting untouched on the table. You don’t even need the menu, really – this trendy, upscale Japanese restaurant is your very favourite, and you count the chef among your personal friends – but having it to look at makes a handy distraction to hide your nerves. Sam, evidently, feels no such need to conceal the fact that he’s completely charmed to see you, despite the cuts and bruises he’s endured in the name of your rescue.  He grins when you meet his eyes. “What?” you ask.

               “You look great, that’s all,” he says, and you laugh dismissively. You did what you could with makeup and a large silk scarf to cover your bandages, but you’re painfully aware that you’re still pale and a little sallow under all the decoration. “You do,” he insists. “You’re just like I remember.”

               “Hardly,” you demur, but you’re flattered, nonetheless. It’s a little surreal, sitting here like this, both of you the same and yet so different from the last time you shared a meal together, and you find yourself at a loss for words. Sam takes a long swallow of his water, and you glance back at your menu.

               “You’ll have to tell me what’s good here,” he says. “I don’t get to fancy restaurants much these days.”

               “Oh god, not me,” you say. “I couldn’t live without it. I’m in here for tuna rolls at least twice a week, and the scallops are to die for.  Definitely try the scallops.”

               “Noted,” he says, then, “Sounds like you’ve been coming here a long time.”

               “Ever since I bought my condo and opened up the shop,” you answer. “Four years, maybe?”

               He nods.  “All right, I have to ask,” he says, “what is with the antique shop? I thought you hated business, and then you opened one of your own?”

               “Well,” you say, “I was in a fix for cash back then, and you know even better than I do how much demand there is for certain types of rarities. Turns out I have a knack for tracking those things down.”

               “Apparently,” he agrees, looking duly impressed.

               “I had some inside information,” you explain, looking at him pointedly. “You’d be surprised how much there is to learn, as long as you know what you’re looking for.”

               “Not surprised at all, actually,” he remarks.

               “Anyway,” you continue, “once I started pulling in real money, I knew I needed a more tax-friendly explanation for it, and the storefront was born.  The Business diploma came in handy after all.”

               “And you’ve never had any problems with dangerous buyers before?” he asks.

               “Not until now,” you say. “I guess I’ll be looking for a new location.”

               “Do you ever think about just going legit?” he asks. “You’d be a hell of a lot safer.”

               “I don’t know,” you say.  Then, with a smirk, you add, “Do you?”

               He chuckles. “Touché,” he concedes.

               The server, a pretty Korean-American woman in an impeccably pressed white shirt, appears at the table, excusing herself for the interruption. “ _Annyeong haseyo_ ,” Sam says with a smile, to which the server beams happily.

               “You speak Korean!” she says.

               He shakes his head. “You just heard all of it,” he says.

               “That’s still better than most people who come in,” she giggles, then remembers herself and looks bashfully to you. “No offense,” she tells you.

               “None taken,” you say, glancing at Sam, who shrugs and quirks an eyebrow conspiratorially. The server, now a little flustered, asks what you’d like to drink.

               “Bottle of wine?” Sam asks you, “Or are you still just into cheap draft beer?” he adds, grinning.

               “Cute,” you respond. “But I’d better take it easy,” you say, casually readjusting the scarf hiding the gauze taped onto your neck.  “I’ll have a glass of the Riesling, please,” you say to the server.

               “Sapporo,” Sam says. “And keep them coming.” When you look at him questioningly, he shrugs.  “I don’t have to take it easy,” he says with a chuckle. The server nods and hurries off.

               “Why all the beer, Sam?” you ask playfully.  “Am I making you nervous?”

                “Maybe a little,” he says, glancing away with a small, sheepish grin.

               “Seriously? Why?” you ask. “If anyone should be nervous right now, it’s me,” you say.  “You’re kind of my actual hero.”

               Still not looking, he says, “You don’t owe me anything, (Y/N).” He clears his throat and takes another long drink of water. “Anyway,” he says, brightening, changing the subject, “tell me something else.  Did you move here right out of college? Did you keep up with your writing at all?  I don’t see a ring . . . were you ever married?”

               “That’s one yes and two no’s,” you answer.  “After college, I really just needed a change of scenery.  I moved out here and took a job at one of the casinos as an office manager, and then I started moonlighting at a blues bar.  There wasn’t any time for writing. I ended up meeting someone there, a musician, and we lived together for a while, right up until he packed up the contents of our joint checking account and disappeared.  That’s around the time I started seeking alternate investment opportunities, and I’ve never really been in a serious relationship since.”

               “Wow, he sounds like a winner. You want me to kick his ass?” Sam jokes.

               “Nah,” you say with a laugh.  “I think I’m better off.   He never got a record deal, anyway.”

               The server comes back to the table with your drinks. You sit in companionable silence as she empties the can of Sapporo into a frosted pint glass for Sam, and fills your wine glass from a tiny carafe.  When she asks for your order, Sam rattles off the proper Japanese names of a number of dishes, despite his apparent lack of interest in the menu, and is sure to include an order of _hotate_ – the scallops.

               “You know,” you say, once the server scurries off again, “I thought about trying to find you a few times.”

               “Did you?” he asks, cautiously.

               “Once you start throwing the name ‘Winchester’ around, you can’t get some people to shut up,” you say. “I’ve heard some pretty crazy things over the years.”

               “I bet,” he says.  “Most of it true, I would think,” he adds.

               “I hope not,” you say.  “Some of it sounds horrible.”

               “Not all of it,” he says earnestly. “There are victories. You help people. Sometimes you get to meet people like you.”

               “I’m surprised to hear you think of meeting me as one of the good things,” you say, dismissively.

               He frowns.  “(Y/N),” he says, “Meeting you was one of the _best_ things.”

               “Really?” you say, “Because when you left . . . well, I remember that as pretty awful.”

               “Well, yeah, _endings_ are painful,” he says, “but I hope that’s not all you remember about me.”  When you don’t answer right away, instead taking a long sip of your wine, he gently picks up the hand you’ve got resting on the table and weaves his fingers between yours.  “I’m going to tell you something,” he says softly, “because I want you to understand. You know when you hear about people having near-death experiences, and they say that their whole lives flashed before their eyes?  Well, I’ve been there more often than I’d like to think about, and every time, it wasn’t my whole life I saw.  It was just little pieces, little flashes of the things that mattered most to me.  One of those pieces was you.  Every time.”  He nods, and gives your hand a tiny squeeze, and there isn’t a hint of guile in his face.

               “Sam,” you say, floored, a prickle of tears threatening behind your eyes, “do you want to get out of here?” 

               He grins wide. “Is this just because I saved your life?”

               You shrug. “Is that a bad reason?” you tease.

               “I can’t think of a bad reason,” he says, laughing, reaching into his pocket for his wallet.  He casually tosses a wad of bills on the table and quickly slides out of the booth, keeping hold of your hand, pulling you up with him.  Before you can step away from the table, he sweeps his other arm around you and pulls you in close.  He brushes your nose with his own, and when you look up at him, he presses a warm, pliant kiss to your lips, his tongue darting out just before he breaks it.  Your legs go weak, and his arm holds you up.  “How’s the wine treating you?” he asks, as you stumble on your feet.

               “Sure, we’ll blame the wine,” you say, then you find your footing and lead him by the hand outside the restaurant.  He never does get to try the scallops.

* * * * *

               You are reasonably confident that the driver did not catch an eyeful while you and Sam made out like teenagers in the back of the cab, and he slipped his hand up under your dress to thumb your clit over your panties. You are less confident that the same could be said of your doorman, sitting captive in front of his security monitor, while in the elevator, Sam pulled down the front of your dress to expose your breast, then mouthed your nipple for the entire 16-storey ride, directly beneath the closed-circuit camera.  As the bell chimes and you rush to cover up before the doors open, both of your faces stained ruddy with your lipstick, you can’t bring yourself to care. When you look both ways down the hallway and find the coast is clear, you grab Sam by the belt buckle to pull him the few doors down to your condo, accidentally-on-purpose letting your hand skim over the erection straining beneath his zipper in the process.

               By the time you get your key into the lock, Sam has your dress unzipped down your back and when you’re both inside with the door closed behind you, you pull your arms out of the straps, and he pushes it down over your hips, and you step out of it on the way to your bedroom.  “Nice place,” he breathes as he follows you, one hand cupping your ass as you walk, the other working at the buttons on his shirt.  He’s still behind you when you reach the bed, and before you can turn to face him, he pushes you face down onto it, and keeps you bent there with the weight of his chest.  He pushes his hips against you, hard cock pressed through his jeans into the cleft of your ass, and then he lifts your head by a fistful of hair, and your next breath comes out in a moan.  He grinds into you, and sinks his teeth into your shoulder, and you push back against him without even realizing that you’re doing it, cunt clenching, searching for friction.

               “Are you gonna fuck me,” you say, “or just pretend?”

               He shifts to rest a knee up on the edge of the bed, and then slips the hand that isn’t still gripping your hair down the back of your panties, two fingers sliding easily up inside you.  “Ask me again,” he rasps at your ear, slowly drawing his fingers out before pushing them back again.

               “Fuck me,” you say, and he grunts, and works a third finger into your pussy.

               “Again,” he says, and you grin as he pulls your head back a little further, and pant as he works his fingers faster inside you.

               “Fuck me, Sam,” you repeat, and it comes out in a whine, and your pussy tightens up around his fingers for a moment until they’re gone, he’s gone, releasing your hair and stepping back to unbuckle his belt and unzip his jeans and let all of it fall in a heap at his ankles. You crawl up onto the bed, and when he’s down to his boxer-briefs he joins you, kneeling in front of you and sucking your lower lip into his mouth in a deep, languorous kiss. 

               “Ten years,” he says softly, suddenly all slow and deliberate as he carefully unties your scarf and drops it over the edge of the bed.  “Ten years, I’ve been thinking about this,” he adds, hands moving behind your back to unclasp your bra and pull it down off your arms.  He glances from your breasts back up to your eyes, teeth half-bared in a dangerous smile. “You’re damn right I’m going to fuck you.”

               You grin wide, and your stomach flips, and your pussy aches so bad that it actually hurts.  He takes off his briefs, and you take off your panties, and you reach for a condom in your nightstand drawer.  He bites his lip as you take his cock in your hand and roll the rubber onto it, and then you lie back on your pillow, and he interlaces the fingers of one hand with yours as he unfurls himself on top of you, and you remember that he was tall but he was never so _big_ , never made you feel like you are tiny, the way he does now.  Then he’s guiding himself into you, and clasping your other hand to the mattress when he’s fully seated, and for a moment you just stare at each other, and pause for another communicative kiss.  It’s slow at first when he starts to roll his hips, and you lift one knee to wrap your leg around him, and he knows, he remembers, just the way to rub and drag and angle himself to give you exactly what you need.

               He picks up speed, and you’re writhing and whimpering beneath him, and you want to wrap your arms around him but he’s got both your hands trapped against the mattress, so your nails dig crescents into his knuckles, and he just holds your hands even tighter.  You raise your hips off the bed to meet his thrusts, and he kisses you so deep you’re gasping for air, and the ache in your pussy turns into pressure and tension and an itch that you need him to scratch just a little deeper, just a little faster.  “Sam,” you plead, and he kind of groans at the sound of his name, and he fucks you that little bit harder, and then the wire snaps and you come hard around him, head thrown back on your pillow, thighs squeezing his hips, pleasure pulsating at your core.  He doesn’t let up until you’ve stilled beneath him, and then his rhythm stutters, and he moans, and you can feel every twitch of his dick as he trembles his way through his own release.

               After, when the two of you are tangled up together in your bed sheets, your breath and your heartbeats returning to normal, he keeps smiling, and you keep giggling, and you didn’t know you were waiting for it all this time, but still, the wait was worth it.

* * * * *

               “Please tell me those are pancakes I smell,” comes Sam’s voice from your bedroom, as you stand in front of the stove in panties and the oversized gray T-shirt you’ve been sleeping in for as long as you can remember.

               “Blueberry,” you shout back over your shoulder with a smile, expertly flipping the pancakes in the skillet. Sam pads into the kitchen on bare feet, in his jeans and nothing else, looking young and well at ease with his hair all in a tangle and a sated grin on his face. He comes up behind you and nuzzles into your neck, mouthing a few lazy kisses at your shoulder, resting his hands on your hips.

               “Smells amazing,” he says, lifting his head.

               “Me, or the food?” you tease.

               “Both,” he says, shrugging.  “You want a hand with anything?”

               You nod toward the espresso machine taking up real estate on your granite countertop. “Think you remember how to make a latte?”

               He looks at the machine, then back at you, incredulously. “Seriously?” he says.

               “I am very serious about my lattes, Sam,” you respond.

               He laughs and lets go of your hips, then steps over to examine the machine.  “Good thing I’m a professional,” he says and gets to work, the two of you moving around your large, sunny kitchen together in easy harmony.  When you’ve got the pancakes and fresh fruit laid out on the kitchen island, he ceremoniously places the mug down in front of you before sliding into the stool next to you. “Large nonfat latte,” he announces with a grin. You giggle.

               “Thank you,” you say, then you peek over at his mug. “Sam,” you mock-admonish, “I know an Americano when I see one.  What happened to plain black coffee?”

               He shrugs, cutting into his stack of pancakes with the edge of his fork. “When in Rome . . .” he says, then he takes a bite, and his eyes roll back in ecstasy.  You smirk, pleased, and tuck in to your own plate.

               “What are you going to do now?” Sam asks, as you pick at the last remaining pieces of fruit on your plates.

               “Well, now that I don’t have a store to open, I thought I might go back to bed,” you answer, raising your eyebrows suggestively.

               He laughs.  “That’s an idea,” he says, “though I meant more in the long term.”

               “I honestly don’t know,” you say. “I’ll need a new front business, and now that the undesirables have sniffed me out, it might be time for another change of scenery.”

               “You know,” he says, brushing his fingertips absently against the rough stubble on his chin, “I actually know of a place where none of your buyers would ever track you down.  You might even find a few of your rarities there.”

               “Is that right?” you say.

               “If you’re interested,” he adds, looking to you with an eyebrow cocked.

               “I just might be,” you answer.

               “Well, all right,” he says, smiling to himself and hopping to his feet.  Then he’s lifting you off your stool by the waist and setting you back down on top of the island.  “I know you said ‘back to bed’,” he says, stepping in close between your knees and running his hands up under your T-shirt, “but what if we stuck around the kitchen a while longer?”

               You open your mouth to answer, but his lips are on you before you get the chance. 


End file.
